


West Coast of Clare

by JustOnlyGinger



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blowjobs, Crossdressing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hot Tea, M/M, Public Sex, Quaint Seaside Cottages, Somewhat Forced Feminization, Threesome, Vacation Boning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a middle-aged British dude and a less middle-aged American dude who's kind of slutty and they get it on a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Seagulls wheel and call high overhead; gray beach sand crunches underfoot, strewn with flat pebbles and tiny bits of colored glass worn smooth by the tumbling and tossing of the surf. It's just a dream, John knows, but it seems real enough. This is his cold beach, the freezing waters of the North Atlantic; this is what he knew, what he remembers, and he can feel it and touch it, reach down and take a handful of sand and sift it between his fingers, cold and rough and real, each grain catching the low light of the setting sun as it spills.

Watts is near him, walking with him; the kid Winslow had bought, the one that John had fallen modestly in love with all those years ago. He had imagined this; the beach, the sunset, Watts' cool bony hand in his, their bare feet on the cold hard-packed sand by the water's edge. This is too perfect to be real. There's a slight breeze stirring Watts' hair, and he stands gazing alertly into the shallow water, head tilted and immobile, both eyes alive and glinting, reflecting the shimmer of sun on the waves.

“What are you looking for?” John says, and Watts glances over his shoulder, smiles with a mouth full of perfect crooked teeth.

“Whatever's in there,” he answers. “Sea monsters and giant squids and mermaids, right? There's got to be something.” He shades his eyes with one hand, looking out to sea, and John follows his line of sight to the horizon, purple with sunset, smeared and indistinct in the fading light. The water's as blue as he's ever seen it, the sky starting to gray with dusk. It's colder now than it must have been when they started out. John shakes out the jacket he's carrying, eases his arms into the sleeves.

“Are you cold?” he asks Watts. “Hungry?” Watts is standing stilt-legged in the shallows, watching the crawl and retreat of the waves with real and undisguised delight.

“It just goes in and out like this? All the time?” He crouches, curious, plunges his hands into the gray-green water. “Jeez that's cold.”

“You'd better not fall in,” John says, and he hadn't meant to accompany his words with quite such a threatening smirk, but Watts tosses him a brilliant grin and takes off, skimming barefoot over the beach at speeds that John didn't think he was capable of, the ragged wool of his old gray sweater streaming and flapping behind him.

“Can't catch me!” He's paused by a heavy outcropping of water-worn gray rock to turn and taunt John, calling with both hands cupped around his mouth. “Just come and get me. Try and get me wet, Johnny boy. I wanna see you try!” Very well; John breaks into a run, sand flying under his feet. He's huffing like a steam engine by the time he catches up to Watts, who's just standing there, slimly, sleekly, one knee raised and one pale little freckled foot resting on the shelf of rock.

“Whatsamatter, Johnny?” Watts is grinning, hands on hips, triumphantly cocky with his head thrown back and his long hair streaming in the wind. “Aren't you gonna-- ow, shit--” With a quick forward lunge, John's swept him down onto the sand; he straddles Watts' chest, grabs his wrists, pins them on either side of his head. Watts breathes heavily, squirming under him, rocking and heaving his hips ineffectually; John's too heavy to be unseated.

“Did I hurt you?” John likes holding Watts like this, feeling the live wriggling veins and crisp knobs of bone in his narrow wrists, pressing him down and feeling him struggle to free himself, seeing the blood rise in his cheeks, feeling his harsh breaths as he huffs and gasps, winded and exhilarated. He might let Watts go, or he might keep holding on to him. The wind is up, the sky is rapidly darkening, and John realizes it's begun to rain; cold little pinprick drops on the back of his neck. The wind howls along the empty beach, snaps at John's windbreaker, blows Watts' hair over his face.

“You can't hurt me,” Watts says. “You're not trying real hard, though.” He's still squirming, shivering now, moisture from the damp sand starting to soak through his clothes. John releases one of Watts' wrists, palms his crotch, feels his cock stir under his thin-worn jeans.

“This is interesting.”

“What's that, daddy-o? Found something you like there?” Watts rolls onto his side, grabs John's wrist with his free hand and presses John's hand down with a groan. John delights in teasing him, rubbing him firmly and slowly through the material of his jeans, still holding him by the wrist, feeling his pulse beat harder and hotter as he thrashes over onto his hands and knees and starts to hump John's palm.

“God, I fucking love your hands. Love it, daddy.” Watts has his eyes closed now; the rain's coming down in long lashing waves, soaking both of them, plastering Watts' hair to his face and neck. Watts looks as if he'd be content to stay out here all night; as if he could weather any storm, rain or sleet or snow or burning brimstone, as long as John doesn't stop touching him. John, on the other hand, doesn't much enjoy being wet and has a tendency to catch cold.

“Come on. We'd better get inside.” He helps Watts to his feet, shelters Watts with the breadth of his solid body, lets Watts burrow into him for protection as they make their way back up the beach toward the holiday cabin; a one-room structure made of sea-washed gray board, shingled and squat, resting on a heap of jumbled granite slabs and seaweed-slick boulders. John takes a key from his hip pocket, unlocks the little plank door.

Inside is a low brick fireplace, a miniature kitchen with sink, hot plate and refrigerator, and a double bed piled with musty wool blankets. There's a bucket of kindling, logs for the fire heaped up beside the hearth. Frost lights a lively fire while Watts stands in the middle of the room and unselfconsciously strips himself bare; he hangs his sodden clothes on a ladderbacked chair, looks around for something to cover himself with.

“Here.” John's t-shirt is still dry, warmed with his body heat, and Watts shudders as he slips it over his head. He bends by the fire, fanning out his wet hair, and John admires him; naked from the hips down, the thin stuff of the shirt clinging and translucent on his damp chest and shoulders. The collar sags, shows off his wetly gleaming throat.

“You,” John says, reaching over to smooth the hem of the shirt over Watts' hip, “look remarkably sexy like that.”

“Like what? With your clothes on?” Watts looks down at himself, considering. It's one of John's oldest shirts, ragged at the seams, worn tissue-thin; sort of olive-green with a picture on the front of a spread-winged rooster perched atop a horned black bull, and underneath the legend The Cock & Bull. Pub. Aldwark, Derbyshire. 

“I like it,” Watts says. “Think I'll keep it.”

“Don't you keep that on me.” John grabs hold of Watts by the hips, pulls him close. “That's the pub where I met my wife. We used to play darts and watch quiz shows.”

“That's nice, daddy. I like your wife.” Watts arches against John, nestles cozily into his arms. “Got big tits, doesn't she?”

“I like little ones too.” John sneaks a hand up Watts' borrowed shirt, grabs a handful of his queerly plump chest. “Like what you've got under here.”

“Wanna feel 'em while I suck your dick?” Watts grins, leans in to nibble at John's neck; his mouth is nimble, warm and wet; soft lips and quick tongue and sharp little saw-edged teeth. He drops to his knees with disarming swiftness and presses his face into the crotch of John's trousers, his breath warm and damp through the cloth. John shivers mightily, tangles his fingers in a handful of Watts' sodden hair.

“Gonna let me fuck your mouth, boy?” John's shoving his jeans down with one hand, still holding on to Watts with the other; as soon as his dick appears, Watts throws himself on it, gasping and groaning and feeding it into his mouth with one hand clutching it at the base and the other hand perched on John's thigh for balance. John's hard as a rock, watching his spit-shined cock slide in and out of Watts' mouth, yanking his hair and pawing at his chest. Watts is unprotesting, mute, practically limp in John's grasp as John pulls out and rubs the length of his cock over his plump bruised lips.

“You're fucking sexy,” John says; keeps saying, repeats, senselessly, slobberingly, as his breath quickens and his heart pounds faster and faster and he feels like he's about to come all over Watts' serenely immobile face, his closed eyelids and gently smirking mouth, his lips pressed together, then parting slowly as if in anticipation. Then John's coming his fucking brains out, letting Watts have it, streaking his face with it, lowering his head to gasp and pant, Watts with come spattered across his high cheekbones almost too brilliant a sight for him to look at without squinting.

“Too fucking much, 's what you are.” John crouches, then kneels, then lies down on the wood-plank floor in front of the fire to catch his breath. He's warmed through now; gunpowder in his veins, his blood is pure firecracker.

“Thanks, daddy.” Watts' head is resting on John's bare stomach, his wet hair stringy and cold. “Maybe I'm good for something after all.”

“You don't know how good you are.” John reaches down with a heavy hand, brushes his fingers over Watts' lips. There's a slight warmth and stickiness, his own cooling come on Watts' face. Watts' tongue flicks at John's fingertips, tasting delicately.

“I'm pretty lucky you like me. You and Mac.”

“We love you.” John spools Watts' hair around his fingers, tugs gently, hears and feels his breath catch. “We think you're fucking brilliant.”

“I like that. Like it when you talk nice to me.”

“Am I ever mean to you?” John laughs when Watts rolls over and starts kissing him; nipping hungrily at his exposed stomach and chest, his hot breath raising gooseflesh on the sensitive bare skin.

“No. Not really.” He rests the hard point of his chin on John's soft stomach, letting it sink; his head bobs, rises and falls with John's breath. “Don't really give the time of day to guys who're mean to me.”

“Not anymore?” Watts' eyes flick up to meet John's, their expression clouded and hesitant, almost guilty. He runs his tongue over his upper lip contemplatively, then presses his mouth shut in a rigid downturned grimace.

“I dunno. All that stuff, everything I went through, I guess some of that was mean. Guys being mean to me. Fucking me when I said I didn't want to, giving me those pills, making me drink those drinks so I'd loosen up and everything. I didn't know any better back then. I just wanted everyone to like me, and I liked them enough. Liked the attention I got. And the money.”

“You're not like that anymore?” John is still stroking and stroking Watts' slick hair, letting it fall like water from his fingers. He touches Watts' face, uses the pads of his thumbs to brush and stroke the residual stickiness from his skin, watches the stipple of freckles reemerge from underneath.

“I'm older now. I can't be like that. I have to figure out what it really means to love somebody. For them to love me.”

“It means I'll never hurt you. Me and Winslow. We'll never put you through anything like that. Never force you to do what you don't want.” John had suspected things about Watts' early life, things that he'd never quite managed to put together. Not that Watts is reticent with the details, but his way of telling them is glibly unreliable. Paradoxical; he can relate the most harrowing tale without batting an eyelid or breaking a sweat, but breaks down crying over what John would call innocuous bumps in the road.

“I guess I wouldn't want you to.”

“Good lad.” They're quiet for a while, Watts' cheek pillowed on John's chest, John's arms draped around Watts, holding him steady as he starts to shiver.

That's when it starts to seem to John that they ought to relocate from the floor to the bed, which is after all only a meter or so away and far more comfortable. He gracefully regains his feet, sweeping Watts along with him in a single ballroom-dance-esque curve of motion that makes Watts laugh and point out how much it makes him feel like a girl; to which John's response is to pull Watts bodily into his arms, bride-across-the-threshold-style, miscalculate, overbalance and dump him on the bed; then straighten up guiltily, panting and rubbing the small of his back.

“Nice try, old man.” Watts is sprawled on his back with his head propped on his folded arms, grinning to beat the band, John's t-shirt riding dangerously high on his dangerously curved hips. Like a fucking cartoon, John thinks; like some swaying plump-thighed animated siren, with all that pleasant flesh, those perfectly angled bones.

“You know,” Watts is saying, “it's gonna be a while before you can fuck me.”

“Why's that?” John's kicking off his pants and undershorts, giving his own broadly softening middle-aged body due consideration; his legs are good at least, he thinks, nice thick muscle padding out his calves, plenty of definition on his thighs.  
“How old are you, fucking sixty? When do you think you can get it up again?” Watts is teasing him good-naturedly, pulling up the hem of his shirt ostensibly to scratch an itch but really to show off the smoothly plumped expanse of his lovely little belly; unscarred skin, freckles, tiny dark moles, swift downward dart of navel, dark hairs trailing over and down the crest of his abdomen.

“What about you, Jenner Watts? Think you can get it up?” John kneels on the bed between Watts' splayed feet, loses no time in reaching for his prick. Watts is appreciative, squeezes his eyes shut and throws his weight back on his shoulders, arching off the bed as John strokes him. “I hear you have some trouble getting this little thing hard.”

“Fuck you, Frosty,” Watts says, kicking at John ineffectually, losing the tension in his pose and flopping back against the mattress. “Where'd you hear that?”

“Here and there. I heard you can't get hard unless someone's fucking your arse. Or beating it, or fucking your mouth or jerking off on your feet or something.”

“That's a laugh. You think that's funny? And who told you about the feet thing?”

“Winslow tells me a lot, actually. We've had some interesting conversations about you.”

“Interesting, shit. Let me know if you decide to do anything interesting about it.” Watts lays his head to one side, eyes closed, mouth gently quirked up at the corners. He grunts, groans, settles, snores, shams sleep. John leaves off stroking him, as a sort of test; Watts twitches but otherwise remains unmoved. John strikes him sharply on the thigh; Watts raises one hand and sleepily flips him the bird.

“That's enough of that. Naughty boy.” John takes hold of Watts' wrist, raises it to his lips; kisses his open palm, his fingers, licks gently, draws the tip of Watts' middle finger into his mouth and sucks. Watts gasps, struggles, tries to pull his hand away; he grabs at John's wrists ineffectually, laughs as John continues to lavish kisses on his fingers.

“You're a freak, you know that?” Watts looks on with interest as John tongues and teases him, plump lips composed in a serene close-mouthed smile. He lowers his eyes, demure as a woman, when John runs a fingertip down his throat, traces his collarbone, starts to knead his chest with both hands.

“For you I am.” John nuzzles Watts' neck, lightly bites at the fragrant skin there. “Where'd a lad like you get such a fabulous pair of tits, anyway?”

“Wasn't anything I did.” Watts grins sleepily, tilts his head back, offers his throat for more of John's rough treatment. He's going to bite deep bruises into the translucent freckled skin, make it throbbing and hot and sore, cover it with the prints of his teeth. He works his way down, and down, lower and lower; mouths at Watts' nipples, making him squirm and kick and cry out. His face is flushed, his eyes pressed closed, his teeth sunk in his lower lip.

“Fuck me now,” he says. “Think you can?”

“Think I've got something here.” John's cock is heavy and full; he strokes himself hard with one hand, reaching for the tube of scented grease on the night table with the other. The lubricant's cold on his skin; he shudders and groans, and Watts laughs at his discomfort, head tilted back, all his crooked teeth flashing in the lamplight. The sun's gone down and the wind's picked up; John can hear it sieving through the roof shingles, rattling the timbers of the snug little cabin.

“Fuck me.” Watts shifts over onto his back, splaying his legs and lifting his hips, showing John his freckled belly, his half-hard cock, his soft inner thighs. “'S a nice thing you got there, Frosty.”

“You talk too much.” John presses a palm gently over Watts' mouth as he eases into him, feeling warm shocked breath against his skin. “No wonder Winslow likes to gag you.” Wordlessly, Watts rolls his eyes, raises and lowers his eyebrows, blinks, opens and closes his mouth under John's hand.

“That's not enough to shut you up, is it? You're not going to stop. Not unless I choke all the air out of your pretty little throat.” John drapes his other hand loosely over Watts' neck, not squeezing yet; applying the merest bit of pressure, the very gentlest intimation of a threat. Watts' eyes are wide and wet now, darting quickly from side to side; his mouth moves pleadingly, his teeth scrape dryly against John's palm.

“Good lad, aren't you? I wouldn't hurt you. Not really.” John presses harder, feels Watts gasp and struggle; he removes his hands, and Watts sucks in air, heaving-chested in panic.

“Jesus fucking christ.”

“I told you,” John says mildly, “I wouldn't really hurt you. I know what I'm doing. Trust me, beauty.”

“Beauty, yeah. I'm sure gonna be beautiful with my face all purple and my goddamn eyeballs popping out of my skull.” Watts retreats to the far corner of the bed, rubbing sulkily at his throat, which John can see is already starting to bruise. He lies down, back turned, like an affronted dog, grunting as he settles into the mattress.

“Watts. I'm sorry.” John is suddenly and acutely aware that his cock's been left out in the cold, that there'll be no satisfying it if he doesn't assuage Watts' fears. “Come over here. Let me finish.”

“Finish me off, right? Bet that'd feel good. I know there's a type of guy who likes to kill whores.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I was just trying something.” John shuffles over next to Watts, nuzzles his sweet-smelling hair; it's thick with sea salt, warm and coarse against his skin. “I know. It makes you feel like you can't breathe, doesn't it?”

“Because I can't fucking breathe with your hands around my throat.” Watts is venomous, spitting contempt, back still resolutely turned; and John would be lying if he said that seeing this side of Watts was doing anything to dissipate the ache in his neglected cock.

“You like my hands. Why not trust them?”

“It doesn't feel good. I know some people like that stuff, I know it's supposed to feel good, but it just hurts.” Watts finally rolls over to face John, and he's smiling again, if a bit archly. “You don't have to do any fancy stuff, Frosty. You can just fuck me like a caveman, and I'll love it.”

“From behind?” John laughs and pinches Watts' rear. “Grunting and snorting and pulling your hair?”

“Really, try not to pull the hair too much.” Watts arranges himself in the familiar position, John's t-shirt still clinging high on his back and shoulders; it's going to be wrinkled, John thinks, and it's so ancient, how is he supposed to iron it? Watts glances over his shoulder and winks, then throws one hand up quickly and flashes John a thumbs-up. John can't help but laugh, even as he's spreading Watts' ass and leaning in, urging forward as Watts pushes back, their bodies rising and cresting together like waves. True to his word, John doesn't pull Watts' hair too much; he keeps a hand on the back of his neck, but takes care not to clutch too hard. By the time he comes, he's sure that Watts has forgotten all about that unpleasantness earlier. He rolls onto his back when they separate, and John sucks him off; careful not to soil the t-shirt he's still wearing. John pulls the rough wool blankets over both of them, and falls asleep not long after to the sound of the cold gray rain beating down on the shingle roof.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John wakes up to pleasantly vague recollections of where exactly he is and what he's doing here. There's a warm little body snuggled next to his, a great deal of dark tangled hair heaped on the pillow near his head.

“Well,” John says. “Good morning, pretty thing.”

“Shhh. I'm asleep.”

“No you're not.”

“Shut up.” Watts edges away from John, dragging the covers with him. He nests rather aggressively in the rumpled blankets, winding them around and around himself, leaving John to content himself with little more than a ragged edge.

“For fuck's sake,” John says; and, “That's enough, you little prick.” He forcibly unravels Watts' cocoon, becomes aware at some point of an unpleasant memory; a dream, of course, it was nothing that actually happened. Thick dusty textiles spooling over and between his hands, fragile wrappings, crumbling, his hands shaking as they work faster and faster to unveil this curio, this creature, this culmination of a lifetime's work. Backbreaking and lonely, sweltering in the damp valleys and freezing out on the high unprotected ridgetops of a mountain range half a world away.

“What the fuck.” John cradles his head in his hands, and the dream passes; like a cloud over the sun, throwing its brief shadow.

“What's wrong with you?” Watts grabs John's shoulder, uses it to lever himself to his feet, leaps off the bed and lands with the elbow-flapping grace of a flightless bird. “You want breakfast? I'm gonna make some eggs.”

“It's nothing. I mean, it wasn't. Anything. My head just hurt.”

“I oughtta fucking slap you upside it for waking me up like that. Asshole.” Watts laughs, and Frost hears the ring of frying pan on cooktop, eggshells cracking, wet pop and sizzle. Sunny-side-up. “You sleep all right there, Frosty?”

“Yeah. Not bad.” John observes Watts shuffling around the makeshift kitchen; barefoot, bareassed, still draped in that raggedy old t-shirt. He thinks of when he and Sonia were young together, all the pantless breakfasts he'd cooked for her in their first tiny apartment in the city where she'd gone to university, where it was decided that they'd settle down together. He used to lie in bed there, thinking of farmhouses and rambling walls and hedgerows; millponds, wildflowers, paddling ducks in the spring. They'd moved back to the village not long after, decided against ever having children; she'd taken up knitting, and he tried painting, then the guitar. They were a low-key couple: few friends, couple of fat cats on the hearth; often alone, long walks by the green canal in good weather.

“I dreamed about the ice.” Watts pries at the eggs in the pan with a fork, succeeds in breaking both yolks. “I was kinda cold, I guess.”

“What was it like? The ice?” John stands and stretches, slides his feet into his slippers and putters over to the sink to fill the kettle. Watts cracks two more eggs into the pan, considers them for a moment, then shrugs and dumps in a third.

“I could see everything. I couldn't hear, and I couldn't speak, but I could see. It was really empty for a long time. Then there were some guys with shovels digging around, and it was dark, and then I guess I closed my eyes, because I couldn't see anymore.”

“You know,” Watts continues, sliding the sizzling eggs onto a plate, “I'm lucky. I died twice, and I came back both times.”

Breakfast is cozily and thoroughly enjoyable; Watts teasing John lazily, elbowing him in the ribs, stealing his last slice of toast.

“Are you ever going to put your pants back on?” John grabs a warm handful of Watts' ass, shudders as he feels his cock start to stir. Watts isn't the only one who's lucky; who is John, after all, to be given a gift like this? Theirs is a union of opposites, each admiring every oddity, every point of variance between their two lives. They poke fun at each other's accents, compare pronunciations, tell stories of their heretofore-imagined-to-be-unremarkable childhoods on the wonderful blue-green earth. John's private schools and public houses, Watts' lazy summer-grass daydreams, long days spent spinning records on his grandma's porch. Doo-wop, those choruses of chiming voices. The Moonglows, the Valiants, the Fascinators, the Elegants, the Five Satins.

“Don't really see that I oughtta.”

“It's just that if I have to keep looking at your ass I think my fucking heart's going to stop.”

“They have pills for that, don't they?”

“I imagine they do. It'll still be your fault if I kick off, though, won't it?”

“You're the one who got my pants all wet.”

“They're probably dry now.”

“You wanna go out, Frosty? Take another stroll, work up an appetite?” Watts is shaking out his rumpled jeans by the fireplace, sand flying everywhere. He pulls them on, wincing and yelping, more sand pouring out of the rolled-up cuffs.

“All right there?”

“They're dry. Kinda cold though.”

“You do carry on, don't you?” John tosses Watts his balled-up sweater; at one time a very nice garment, cloud-soft gray cashmere, now stretched and pilled beyond recognition, sleeves full of holes, hanging practically in tatters. It looks nice on him, makes John think of Oscar Wilde's Victorian fairy tales; the poor student huddled in his garret, shrewd dark eyes and fever-bright cheeks and long tangled hair.

“You're one to talk.” Before John can ask him just what the fuck he's on about, Watts slams out the door and is gone. From the window, John can see him skittering around like a sandpiper, chasing the combing waves.

“Dare you to strip off and jump in,” John calls to him. Watts looks up, cocks his head, grins.

“You're the one who wanted me to get dressed.”

“I know. I'm regretting that now.”

“Real funny guy you are, Frosty.” Watts stands on one leg, kicks idly at the water. The sun's come out again and the day is unseasonably warm, but the waves lapping at John's bare feet are freezing cold, and he doesn't relish the thought of jumping in.

“Not being funny. I'm dead serious.” John bends down, splashes water at Watts with one hand. “Come on now, in you go.”

Watts glances both ways, up and down the beach; it's completely deserted, no witnesses but the seagulls. He shrugs and starts to pull at the sleeves of his sweater. Soon he's wadding it up and tossing it at John, who tucks it under his arm and settles down in the sand to watch the show. Watts' shirt follows shortly after; half-naked, he stretches his arms over his head, tosses his hair and preens.

“Brilliant,” Frost says. “I've never seen anything more beautiful.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet.” Watts grins, unbuckling his belt. He thrusts both thumbs under the waistband of his jeans and starts to work it down; his hips arch obscenely, salt-white and gleaming. He's not in the habit of wearing underwear, and John's not one to complain. His trousers land in a heap next to John, and he takes off bareassed through the surf, leaping over the low combing waves, jeweled curtains of water droplets falling all around him. Suddenly he turns, his back to John, raises his arms above his head, and curves his body into a spectacular swan dive; John sees his vague white form drifting through the green of the water before he breaks the surface again, gulping air and splashing, whooping and yelping and kicking and still, somehow, grinning from ear to ear.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Holy fucking shit.” On his hands and knees, he propels himself into the shallows and claws his way onto the sand, where John is waiting, arms open, to receive him; he finds himself with a lap full of soaked and panting Watts, which really couldn't be better if he'd planned it.

“Shit. That's the last time I listen to you.” Watts laughs wheezingly, coughs, spits on the sand. “Get me back inside before I freeze to fucking death.”

“What, you think I'm going to carry you?” Frost eases Watts off his lap, watches him squirm and scrabble to right himself.

“I kind of doubt my legs work right now.” Chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck under his breath, Watts grabs Frost's shoulder and climbs to his feet; he sways a little but manages to remain standing, shivering so hard his knees are practically knocking together.

“Meet you inside,” he says; Frost watches his off-kilter sprint to the cabin, following along behind him at a leisurely pace. Inside, Watts is toweling off in front of the fire, flicking his sodden hair, sending droplets of water spitting and hissing onto the hot brickwork of the hearth. He's covered in gooseflesh, his skin shocked pale; shading towards blue at the extremities. His nipples are hard, his cock and balls defensively shrunken in on themselves.

“I think that might be the dumbest thing I've ever done.”

“I'd say you should know better, but I should really know better than to encourage you.” John rests his hands on Watts' hips, standing behind him; his skin is cool and damp and smooth, the skin of a siren, a sea monster, some mythical creature risen up from the icy Atlantic depths.

“I know what else you can encourage me to do.” Watts arches his back prettily, pressing his bare ass against John's stiff-trousered thighs, and John groans low in his throat and pulls Watts into him, nuzzling his neck and licking the salt from his skin.

“Frankly speaking, I don't think that'd take much encouragement.” John kisses the nape of Watts' neck, bites it lightly, mouths and licks at his spotted shoulders. Watts is speckled like a stone, layered with blots and dabs of pale color; cream, milky coffee, eggshell, sand.

“Love these freckles,” John says. “They make you look sort of... edible.” John runs his hands admiringly up and down Watts' back, curves one palm over the swell of his sweetly rounded ass. He's grateful for this opportunity to study Watts at close quarters; it's not often that they can be alone together for any length of time. John likes learning who Watts is out of context; independent of Win and his grudging but faithful worship.

“Eat me up, daddy.” Watts laughs and shimmies his ass from side to side; he reaches back to take hold of John's hands at the wrists, and John allows himself to be guided and led, squeezes a double handful of the softness between Watts' ribs and pubic bone. His belly is another point of interest; almost as much fun as his ass, in John's opinion. By now he's rubbed off on practically every part of Watts at least once, as if he's going through an anatomical dictionary; phalanges, patella, costal arch, iliac crest...

Watts lies down in front of the fire, and John fucks him there, on his hands and knees on the scratchy hearth rug. Afterwards they retreat naked to the bed, heap themselves with blankets; John finds his book and his reading glasses, and Watts works at some kind of puzzle in the notebook he carries around with him. After a while Watts puts down his pencil and settles his head on John's shoulder to nap; John has one arm around him, one hand absently twisting and wringing the damp locks of his hair.

“I was thinking,” Watts says. “I never really had anything like this before, like a relationship. And now I have you and Mac. I got really lucky all of a sudden.”

“You never did?”

“Nah. Don't look so surprised.”

“I assumed you did. What about that doctor?”

“Hyatt... you know, I asked him once. Not because I really wanted to, you know, be his kept boy or whatever, but I was curious. You know what he said? I memorized it. I never forgot it. He said, Watts, I don't want to pursue a romantic relationship with you because you're extremely shallow. Your personality is a construct, a collection of learned behaviors predicated on getting what you want from others. I find the relationship we already have very satisfactory, though, don't you?”

“He said all that?”

“Yeah.” Watts folds his arms underneath him, props them up on John's chest. “I mean, it's pretty much true.”

“It's pretty much a load of pseudo-intellectual pig dribble.”

“What does that mean?” Watts is smiling now, his battered front teeth showing; they're slanted-looking, shuffled like playing cards. Watts' smile is variously chipped and stained and in dire need of a set of braces, but somehow that only adds to its charm.

“It means he thought he was smart, but he was a fucking idiot.” John lifts his head and kisses Watts' pretty crooked mouth, one hand still tangled firmly in his hair. “It's him that's the shallow one, if he couldn't see all the glorious depth there is to you.”

“I dunno. I mean, the learned behaviors part makes sense. I only ever did what I learned how to do, because it made my life easier.”

“Everyone else does too. We're all equally guilty of that.” John kisses the end of Watts' nose, makes him smile again, then grin, then laugh. “Nobody wants their life to be hard, you know. We all learn how to get along. And get what we want.”

“What do you want?” Watts raises a hand to his mouth, chews his fingertips absently. His eyes look peculiarly keen and focused, the green behind the brown flaring gas-flame bright.

“Now? Now I just want everyone I love to be happy. That'll be enough for me.” Watts nods, closing his eyes and resting his head on John's chest, and they're quiet for a while; breathing in concert, the faint pounding of the surf just audible above the peaceful sounds Watts makes when he's nestled in John's arms, slow and sleepy and ready to drift under.

“Are you happy?” Watts asks. It's not a question John's unprepared for, exactly. He's thought about it often enough, but he doesn't know the answer.


End file.
